Shadow of a Gunman
by McJunker
Summary: Broken and beaten by the Batman, a Russian hitman comes back for revenge. Sequel to The Gunman with a Thousand Names
1. Welcome to Blackgate

Anatoli Knyazev, once code named "Beast", was not tried under his own name, because there was no official record that Anatoli Knyazev had ever existed. The KGB had erased him from the face of the earth during the Cold War and had provided him new names on an as needed basis. Moscow hadn't used him for years and certainly wouldn't care enough to set the record straight now, by releasing whatever records they had on him from way back when. The prosecutors decided to simply try him under the alias he had been using at the time of his arrest. Otherwise, his mob lawyer could get the case thrown out on the grounds that there was no proof his client actually was Mr. Knyazev.

Ironically, his phony IDs showing him to be John Grovenor were authentic enough that his lawyer couldn't argue that he wasn't his own alias.

So it was Grovenor, not Anatoli Knyazev, who took the rap for the first degree homicide of the two cops near Crime Alley. There were a slew of lesser offenses as well, including conspiracy to commit murder, possession of an illicit substance, possession of unlicensed firearms, and so on. The lawyers always slapped on as much as they could; if some bleeding heart jury lets him off the hook for the murders, they still had a good chance of getting him behind bars on the lesser crimes.

All told, he was looking at five consecutive life sentences, with no eligibility for parole.

Grovenor didn't care what name he was convicted under. He had no intention of serving even one life sentence, let alone five, and new identities were easy to come by.

He knew what his true crime was, for the dead cops had been nothing more than bait in a trap. His true crime was that when his trap was sprung against the Batman, Grovenor had failed to kill him. Failure is the only crime Grovenor recognized, apart from stupidity. And smart operators don't end up in prison hospital with a broken wrist.

The Bat had to die. That was the thought that wouldn't leave his mind. Even as the judge passed the sentence in the crowded courtroom, that was all he could think about. Grovenor had been hired by an old friend to murder the Batman, and he had failed. He was a professional. He did not leave jobs half done.

And God, how he hated to lose to a man in a fucking bat costume.

* * *

Grovenor's first day in prison went about as he expected. Grovenor had been out of the medical wing for no more than three hours when he was jumped by three other prisoners in the lunch line. They were tattooed Salvadorans, hardened _veteranos_ of MS-13's turf wars in Gotham.

There were different types of fights in prison. There were prestige fights, where both parties just want to show everyone watching that they couldn't be fucked with- these usually didn't escalate very far. There were hate fights where someone was going to die. Then, there were pecking order fights, where the fresh fish found out exactly how low they sit on the totem pole.

Grovenor's problem was that he looked old and soft. He was fifty years old and could be mistaken for sixty, and his time recovering in the hospital with one wrist in a cast and the other cuffed to the bed had left him looking frail and weak. By his standards, he was frail and weak, but a few months in the prison's gym would get him back up to speed.

The Salvadorans crowded in conspicuously, pressing themselves into line before and after him, not even bothering to hold food trays as camouflage. The third slunk into position behind Grovenor's back. Even if Grovenor had somehow failed to spot them, the other prisoners suddenly finding urgent business on the opposite side of the room would have been a tip off.

Grovenor opted for premature self-defense and slammed the edge of his orange plastic tray into the face of the man behind him, bouncing it off the bridge of his nose. The tray didn't weigh enough to actually break it, but the placement would at least make his eyes water up.

Before anyone could react, Grovenor slipped his fingers into the eyes of the man in front of him. Blind, screaming, and off balance, the Salvadoran stumbled back trying to create space. Grovenor simply followed along and kicked his legs out from under him. He turned just in time for the third man to spear tackle him to the ground, driving the back of Grovenor's head into the stainless steel counter. This was a tactical mistake. In his past, Grovenor had been trained in the Russian martial art of Sambo, which emphasizes grappling. He hadn't practiced in years, but muscle memory was sufficient to deal with an amateur. Within seconds of his head banging off the metal, Grovenor had broken his opponent's shin bone with a leg lock.

He was still on his back when the Salvadoran he had smacked with the tray got to him and stomped a shoe into his face. Grovenor thrashed around and flailed his arms and legs to make a bad target, trying to work out which direction safety might lie so he could roll there. He got kicked twice more in the face before he found a wall to scrunch up to and propped himself to a knee. He took two more wild haymakers to the face before could shove his attacker off and create space. By this point, Grovenor was dripping great big splashes of sweat with every movement and was sucking hard for every breath. He was half blinded by blood dripping down from his forehead and the buzzing in his ears was deafening.

When the Salvadoran moved in to hit him again, Grovenor grabbed the wrist and dragged him into a sidekick that landed like artillery. Grovenor kicked his feet out from under him and finished the struggle with a well aimed strike to the face. The Salvadoran's head clunked into the black and white tile floor, and he went limp.

Beyond the buzzing drone in his ears, Grovenor realized that the dining facility was almost completely still. The prisoners were staring at him bug-eyed, unable to believe that the fragile old man was still alive. The only sounds came from the hissed curses of the man with the broken shin and the sobs from the blinded man.

Grovenor smiled like a saint on a stained glass window. He shifted his upper body to face every inmate at Blackgate, so every one of them could see him smiling. Then he turned and started kicking the one who had tackled him the ground, aiming directly for the broken shin. The screams echoed through the hall.

There was nothing personal about it. Grovenor didn't hate them, and he derived no kind of sick pleasure from the screams. In fact, if there hadn't been a crowd of potential problems watching them, he likely would've shrugged the attack off and called in the screws to get them over to the medical wing.

But that's life. Some days you get dealt a bad hand, and living with it is just part of the game.

The Blackgate guards were very professional about subduing Grovenor, which he appreciated. They didn't beat him any worse than they needed to when they took him down. They didn't even point their shotguns at anyone, preferring to use batons and riot shields in moderation.

* * *

The lights were out. By long habit, Grovenor got nervous.

Not scared. He would never admit that the darkness scared him. But he had a lot of bad memories that put him on edge whenever they oozed to the surface, and many of them took place on moonless nights. His first night in his new cell seemed enough to justify a little nervousness.

His was the top bunk. He laid on top of his blankets despite the chill air, worried that they might tangle him up if he got jumped again. Sleep wouldn't come. His body throbbed, demanding that he stay awake to feel the bruises and cuts.

"Yo, homes," a raspy voice below whispered. "You up?"

Grovenor shifted around on his side. He figured, worst case scenario, if his cellmate tried anything, he could swing a foot into the side of his head to buy some space. "Yeah."

"Listen, man. I saw you whup those guys today. I got two fucking weeks 'fore my parole board. I ain't looking to start shit."

"Ok."

"You just do you, man. You don't fuck with me, I don't fuck with you. I got two weeks. Thirteen days and ten hours. I don't wanna fuck this shit up."

"Ok."

"Aight, man. We cool. We cool."

"We're cool."

Grovenor heard the man below him shift around, scrapping the rough blankets together softly. "Them guys you fucked up were MS-13. I don't remember what that stands for. Maras Salvatruchean, or something. I don't speak Spanish. They some hardcore motherfuckers, man. They got friends."

"Jackals always do."

His cellmate wheezed a rich laugh. "Yeah. Yeah. What's your name again?"

"Grovenor. John Grovenor."

"I'm Walt. Walter Green. Please to meet you."

"Likewise."

"What you in for, Johnny?"

Grovenor shrugged, even though Walt couldn't see him. "Double homicide."

"Damn. You do it?"

"Yeah."

Walt whistled softly. "Damn."

"You?"

"Fucking cops set me up. Planted some coke on me after beating my ass for a day and a half."

"Yeah?" said Grovenor.

"I was only selling pot. I didn't have enough green on me when they busted me, so I couldn't get out of it. Now they got the weed and they took my ride. Man, you just know they sold them both even before the judge threw my ass in here. And now I'm up in here begging for parole like a sorry tax payer. Fuckin' cops, man. And they wonder why they can't drive through the ghetto without getting shot."

"That's Gotham for you."

Walt sighed. "Fuck it. Two weeks."

Grovenor relaxed back onto his blanket as Walt fell silent. He didn't feel that same edge of danger from before. Maybe he would get some sleep tonight.

"Hey, Johnny. I think I remember you. You were on TV last year, homes. You're the Russian dude that the Bat caught, right?"

Grovenor frowned, up top where Walt couldn't see his face. "Yeah."

"Is it true? There actually is a Bat out there?"

"Yes."

"Holy fucking shit. I thought that was just an urban legend."

"He is not an urban legend," Grovenor said. "But he's not some supernatural giant bat that carries off the wicked. Just a nut job in body armor, punching hoods every night. That's all."

"You sure?"

"Yes."

"God damn," Walt said. "I don't know about that. Mo' like it's a vampire with a hard on for gangbangers, or something. No way it's just some dude in a batsuit."

Walt stopped talking then, and eventually his breathing told Grovenor he was fast asleep. That's when he allowed himself to slip away as well.

* * *

The next day found Grovenor pumping out pushups in the gym during recreation, sweat dripping in rivers onto the blue mats. He was disgusted with himself- only thirty and he was already trembling. His wrist, so newly freed from its cast, ached horribly, but Grovenor could tell the difference between an ache and an injury. He refused to let the pain stop him from continuing.

After his fourth set of thirty pushups, he bounced to his feet and started for the water fountain. That's when he read the room.

There were ten other prisoners in the gym, and not one was looking at him. Not one was closer than ten feet. He saw five Hispanics lounging around the only exit. One of them nodded his head at him in acknowledgement. Their hands were in their pockets clutching something. Grovenor couldn't read the tattoos on their faces from across the rooms but it seemed like a good bet they were more Maras.

Chyort. This was a bad room to fight five men. Heavy weights and metal frames everywhere. No chance of catching them by surprise like last time.

Grovenor sucked water slowly from the fountain, glancing at the clock. They had about a half hour left before rec time was up and they all had to return to their cells. Presumably they would jump him just before then unless he kicked it off first.

He returned to the mats and started stretching. Might as well do something productive while he tried to think of a way out of it. One by one the gym rats left the room, squeezing past the five Maras as softly and politely as they could.

Maybe if he grabbed a five pound weight in each hand. Made his stand in the row between the weight racks. Make them come at him one at a time. Hurt the first guy bad enough and maybe the others would give up. Hope springs eternal in the human heart.

Grovenor suspected he might become reacquainted with Blackgate medical wing in the near future. If he was lucky and the guards arrived before the Salvadorans had him down for too long.

Grovenor's planning was interrupted by an animal snort to his left, near the heaviest weights.

"Goddamn, but you're about to get fucked up good."

Grovenor jerked his head around to find the source of the voice.

He recognized the speaker as one of the group of black guys who had been body building earlier, who had stayed behind when the others left. The man standing with his armed crossed and grinning a snaggle toothed grin. Grovenor had pegged him as one of the dangerous ones, albeit one who was not interested in anything but working out in peace. Grovenor had noted that he was tall and wide when he had first entered the gym, but that was when the man had been on his back pumping iron. Now that he could see him standing, Grovenor saw that he was on a whole different level. He was easily six feet and eight inches of beefy muscle and fat shoved into orange jumpsuit- the sleeves were tied off at the waist and his torso was covered by a white tank top. His hair was curled tight into cornrows that ended in short dangling braids down the back of his neck. After the initial shock of his size had passed, Grovenor saw that his skin was- well, there wasn't really a word for what was wrong with his skin. It was like a craggy oak had developed eczema, at least on his shoulders, neck and arms.

"Uh," said Grovenor.

The weightlifter peeled his lips back to smile wider. Three of his teeth gleamed gold. The rest looked like they might have been inexpertly filed into points. "Those MS-13 pricks are going to fuck you up," he announced.

"They're going to try," said Grovenor.

"They gonna do it," the giant said. "Word is, those guys got shanks made special just for you. They just waiting for the guard to change, 'cause they already bribed the next shift to drag their heels coming to save your ass."

Well, shit, thought Grovenor.

"Yeah. That guy you smacked with the tray, he was Moreno's little brother. Alberto Moreno runs the Maras in here," he explained helpfully. "Moreno don't like you very much."

Grovenor shrugged. "Well, " he said. "I never expected to die peacefully in bed."

The giant laughed, a harsh coughing hack that sounded like a Doberman barking a warning. "I like you," he said, and he extended a large, calloused hand. "I'm Waylon."

Grovenor took it and tried to squeeze, but couldn't wrap his fingers around the palm. Waylon crushed his hand without mercy. "John Grovenor. Didn't I hear about you? Waylon Jones? You ran a crew in the Narrows two, three years back."

Waylon nodded, pleased to be recognized. "Yeah, that was me," he said. "Carjacking and stick ups. Even did a little muscle work for old Carmine Falcone back in the day, on contract. It was good times but there wasn't no money in it."

Grovenor nodded and glanced at the clock again. Twenty minutes till the bell. When was the guard changeover? Ten minutes from now? "I bet."

Waylon leaned in closed and whispered, "I can take care of those pricks for you. Make sure they don't come back, too. But it'll cost you."

"Cost me what, exactly?" Grovenor asked. He drew the words out slowly, cautiously.

"I don't know yet. Call it a favor. When I come to you looking for a hook up, you give it, no questions asked. The guards change in five minutes, and after that it's party time. And after that... there ain't gonna be no after that. So you gotta decide now."

Grovenor nodded, greatly relieved. The price was... lower than expected. "Deal."

Waylon Jones smiled his crocodile smile and turned to the Salvadorans. They went pale as one.

Waylon shook his head no. He pointed at Grovenor and shook his head again.

The Salvadorans got the message. They were gone before Waylon could even turn back to Grovenor.

"And that's that," said Waylon. "Once they tell Moreno, every guy in this cage gonna know you under my wing. That's if these crackers don't get the word out first," he said, indicating the other prisoners around them, who were still refusing to make eye contact.

"Thank you."

"Don't thank me, thank your attorney for getting you in here." He grabbed a white towel off the rack.

"How are you going to square this with Moreno?"

Waylon snorted. "I ain't. I tell a motherfucker to back down, he does it. Moreno knows that. Every guy up in here knows you don't fuck with Killah Croc."

"Was that was your street name or something?" Grovenor asked.

"Yeah." Waylon rubbed his grainy neck and flashed his teeth. "Can't imagine why. Must be my happy go lucky attitude."

"Alright. One favor, owed to you."

"Take care, cop killer." With that, Waylon Jones strode out of the gym, chuckling.

Grovenor pumped out another two sets before the bell rang to leave.


	2. Prison Yard Plots

The summer days could kill a man, cook him alive in the blazing sun. His own blood would boil over from the heat. A man lacking water and shade from the sun might live to see nightfall, if he were strong, but he would be in no shape for fighting.

The _mujehedeen_ had grown up with the harshness of that Afghan sun, played in it as kids, worked through it as adults. They could march 20 miles a day in it with only three sips of water, and fight all night after. Ivan Kuznetsov could not fathom how they did it. He had been in Afghanistan for two months, long enough to acclimatize. Even so, most of his training was for cold weather fighting. That might come in handy in four months when the temperature would drop below freezing and the high mountain winds blasted through the valley, but for now the sun was killing him. He endured it in silence. Showing pain or fear in front of his peers was not acceptable.

Ivan Kuznetsov was not his true name. He had not worn the name his mother gave him in years. The opposition had named him "Beast", a title he had earned in blood.

He and three other men laid face down in the dirt, suffering in that unbearable heat while they watched. They wore mottled green and tan camouflage, tan patrol hats to keep off the sun, and thin bandannas to soak up the sweat. They had been laying in place for a little less than two days, undetected and motionless, simply observing the patterns of life in the valley below them. One was parked behind a Dragunov sniper rifle, but he wasn't looking though the scope yet, preferring to scan with binoculars. Another was manning a PKM light machine gun. Kuznetsov and the last carried AK-74s. The fourth man also carried a radio in a backpack.

The valley below them had been eating empires since before Russia was even on the map. Legend had it that the western mouth of the Tangi valley marked the furthest Alexander the Great could push into Afghanistan before bogging down. One Greek historian, echoing Soviet frustrations centuries in the future, described the Pashtun fighters as a mythical Hydra- if you chopped off one head, three more would grow. The fighters who lived in that stronghold were the descendants of the same men who had harried Alexander's armies, who had slaughtered Arab occupiers even as they absorbed Islam, who repelled the British army and massacred the survivors as they tried to retreat.

The westernized city dwellers might accept outside domination, but the hill men would not. They would die where they stood before they showed submission to atheist foreigners.

The _spetsnaz_ team didn't care if the _muj _gave in or not. They only cared about killing whichever enemy was placed in front of them and staying alive. Kuznetsov had a somewhat broader view of the world, and knew enough of the Soviet military leadership in Afghanistan to understand that there was no possible way to win. The locals just could not be cowed. Genocide was the only solution he could imagine, and it was not considered practical.

The sniper stopped the slow sweep of the binos as he acquired a target. He reached down beside the rifle to pick up a pebble, which he tossed at the KGB attache. The pebble bounced off the brim of his cap and tapped inthe dirt. Kuznetsov slid down from his position and slithered over to the sniper.

There was about 300 enemy fighters within a mile. If anything gave their position away before they were ready for it, odds were none of them would return to base. So the sniper mouthed his report, barely breathing, "East, about five hundred meters. On the road near building two."

Kuznetsov took the binos and locked them onto the target. Sure enough, there was a group of eight men loitering near the building, with slung rifles and ammo vests. His heart rate picked up for a second- eight was about the size of the HVT's bodyguard. Ahmed Shah might be in that building even now.

The assassin mouthed to the radioman, "Contact base, tell them to get the quick reaction force on standby. We might be able to wrap this up today."

The fourth man started to unfold the antenna whip, taking care to keep it extended out along the ground. He began muttering into the hand mike while the sniper started prepping his rifle.

Kuznetsov saw the target exit the building, recognizing the face from the brief four days before. "It's on," he said.

He set up a small spotting scope and started rattling off information to the sniper-

"Range- four eight zero. Wind- right cross, 10 miles an hour. Humidity- ten percent-"

The sniper made minor adjustments to his sight with each update.

Ahmed Shah was overconfident. He was on his home turf, a warlord in his own stronghold. He stayed out in the open talking to his bodyguards without a care in the world. He would never have exposed himself for that long anywhere else.

Once the sniper confirmed he was set up, Kuznetsov gave the radioman the go ahead to start sending out the QRF. With luck, the Hinds would show up just as the _muj _figured out where the sniper team was.

"Brezhnev. You're gold. Shoot when you're ready."

The sniper pulled the trigger almost before the KGB man finished speaking. For a trained shooter, the range was easy. He could have made the shot with iron sights. With a sniper scope and a spotter, Brezhnev could choose which eye to put the bullet through.

"Go go go go_ go GO-_"

The radio man and the sniper withdrew first, crouch running along the draw that led westward towards safety. Kuznetsov and the machine gunner stayed just long enough to cover them before falling back as well.

The _muj_ spotted them fast- they knew the valley, and there was not many places Ahmed Shah could have been shot from. Bullets splattered the sniper nest seconds after they abandoned it.

_The heat is going to kill us all_, Kuznetsov thought as he ran across the hills of the Tangi Valley. He had trained with the spetsnaz for months prior to being assigned here, but he was sharply aware that he was the weakest man on the team. Running around with this gear, in this heat. Miles left before they were safe again. Afghan sun blazing down relentlessly. The _mujehedeen _could not match the Russians for speed, but they'd last a lot longer in this damn heat-

_Where the fuck was that air?_

_Fucking pack weighs a ton-_

_Good thing he'd been drinking water all day-_

_How long until the enemy got up on an elevated ridge line and got a clear line of fire-_

Muj _couldn't shoot straight at this range to save their lives but fuck, they only had to get lucky once-_

_Fuck this heat-_

_Brezhnev got the sonofabitch-_

_Damn Hinds are taking their sweet ass time-_

Grovenor jerked awake ready to kill somebody until he realized he was in Blackgate prison, not Afghanistan. He breathed in and out hard, willing himself to relax. Ahmad Shah. He hadn't thought about that piece of shit in years. His first success in his Afghan posting, though not his last. Not that any minor victory could change the clusterfuck of the occupation at all.

"Jesus, man. You alright up there?" Walt asked from below him. Grovenor could hear the concern in his voice and wondered what kind of noises he'd making in his sleep. Sleep talking was a bad habit to get into.

Grovenor didn't answer.

"Yo, man. Bad dream, or something?"

"On the contrary," Grovenor said. "Just remembering the glory days."

With no further explanation, he turned onto his side and closed his eyes until sleep came for him again.

* * *

Walt Green got his parole without incident. Grovenor's new cellmate, a skinny white junkie named Thomas, jumped him on his very first day. Possibly because he heard taken the age old advice that new fish needed to beat someone up or become someone's bitch.

Grovenor sent him to the hospital wing with ten broken fingers and a fractured skull. Security camera footage showing the fight was started by Thomas exonerated him, despite his having targeted the fingers once the fight ended. He avoided solitary confinement.

His next cellmate heard the rumors in time and minded his manners.

It was just like the old days.

* * *

Routine set in for Grovenor as the first weeks in Blackgate passed by.

The rules of prison life were largely the same as the ones he'd been playing by his entire life, so Grovenor knew instinctively to not bump into anyone in the halls. A shoulder brush was a violation of personal space, which in turn was a reason to fight. He knew that looking someone in the eyes was a challenge, but only if it happened in public. In his previous life he had been trained to blend with crowds, to become a blurred face in the crowd that eyes passed over without a thought. After that first time in the cafeteria, no guard even glanced at him.

He collected empty packs from the prison yard and stocked each one with two cigarettes. He then made himself popular with a lot of inmates by giving away his last cigarettes, over and over again.

Each prison gang saw a different face to him. To the Italians, Grovenor was a professional hood who was dying to go back home to Russia one day, which was about the same song they all sang about Sicily. To the black gangs, he was a cold blooded cop killer, someone who would drop a body over nothing. To the Irish, he was a good buddy who enjoyed a good brawl and a good drink, and held an astounding amount of sympathy and knowledge about the Struggle back in Northern Ireland.

Grovenor blanked the Salvadoreans. He was still angry that they had managed to come close to killing him when he was still weak.

Between the cafeteria brawl, Killah Croc's protection, and his own diplomatic efforts, nobody in the prison was laying in wait to catch him with his guard down, though he could tell the Maras felt slighted and cheated. If Waylon Jones ever withdrew his protection, they would be gunning for him, but for now they kept their distance. As a precaution, he compiled a mental list of which of the Salvadoreans to kill preemptively if Jones ever left him hanging. Assuming he had some advance warning, he could bump off three of them before any one realized he was on the war path.

He memorized the guard schedule and monitored for any deviations. He continued to press his body to the limits in the gym. He watched his food intake in the dining facility, making sure to eat enough protein to let him rebuild some muscle mass and avoiding all the sugar and fat. It was in places like this that good agents go to seed. Above all, he started looking for ways to break out.

The obvious route was to stage a prison riot and duck out during the chaos. But at the slightest sign of unruliness the guards shut down the facility and broke out the shields, batons, and shotguns, and sometimes even pumped in tear gas through the air ducts. No, prison riots were one thing the guards were wary of. Grovenor concluded that escape opportunities during an uprising were severely constricted.

Grovenor considered a host of other schemes. He thought about faking an illness to get into the hospital wing again and smuggling himself out in a body bag, which is not as stupid than it sounded. A British spy had once slipped through his fingers in East Berlin using a similar trick.

He considered catching a guard unawares and killing him, taking his uniform, stashing the corpse, and bluffing his way out the front gate. He measured how long it would take to tunnel out, how much it would take to bribe a guard to look the other way while he crawled out through the laundry room chute. Every plan he developed came up short, either due to limited resources, limited intel, or sheer impracticality.

* * *

"I've been thinking," Grovenor said.

"Dangerous past time," Waylon said.

"About how to work off that debt I owe you."

"Ah," Waylon said. He pulled a deep drag off off his cigar and blew it out. "I'm listening."

They were sitting at the top rung of the bleachers watching the basketball game below them. It was a relatively friendly game between different crews who had never had much conflict in the past, the Irish Longshoreman Union and the 10th Street Comanches. There was plenty of other inmates, but they all remained standing on the side lines. The bleachers were theirs during the yard time, everyone knew that.

"I don't intend to serve my sentence like a good little citizen. Even if I wanted to it, it would take a while."

Waylon wheezed out a small laugh.

"So I've been thinking on ways to bust out of here. My question is- do you want in on this? Breathe some free air again before Uncle Sam says you should?"

Waylon shrugged. "Last time someone shot me it stung a little." He barked out his doberman laugh. "So I'd be up for it if I thought it would work."

"More importantly, if I got the two of us out of here, would you consider the debt paid off?"

"I ain't got it too bad in here. The guards don't fuck with me, the other guys piss themselves every time I walk by. I can get shit smuggled in when I'm jonesing. It's not that bad. Ah shit, here we go!"

Below them, a young black guy with dreadlocks went for a lay up and was shoulder checked into the concrete. He bounced up and threw fist at the beefy Irishman who hit him. Within seconds the game dissolved as the crew mauled each other trying to protect their own.

"You got to hand it to him," Waylon said, nodding towards the kid who got checked. "Roy's been getting fucked with since the moment he stepped off the bus, but he don't step down."

The brawl ended in a heartbeat. Roy's head was bounced off the tarmac, loud enough for the bounce to be heard all the way up the bleachers. Dark red blood quickly pooled under his head. The other players decided it was just a prestige fight, not worth getting maced over once the guards showed up. Both gangs pulled a fast fade to the other side of the yard. They left Roy where he fell, his dreads getting thicker with blood as he struggled to sit upright.

"I lost my, whadayacallit, train of thought. Yeah. I don't have it too bad here. So it's not like you're saving me from a life of fear and shower sex, you know?"

"I'm not just talking about freedom. I'm also talking about _economic _opportunities."

Waylon smoked his contraband cigar in silence.

Grovenor continued, "You know this city better than I do, but I have contacts around the world. I can get us some top of the line hardware. Between you and me, we can take this city for everything it's got."

"What are you saying- like a stick up crew? Knocking over banks or something?"

"Power flows from the barrel of a gun, man. If we have the best guns in town, there's nothing we can't do. Sticking up 7-11s? Sure, to start with. But I'm talking big time. Banks, sure. Extortion. Blackmail. Kidnapping. Murder for hire. Jesus, man, we get a few more trigger fingers and we can outgun Gotham PD."

Waylon nodded. "I'm in." He scratched his chin as he watched Leroux loll bonelessly on the court. "I might even have some ideas about recruitment. Assuming you actually can get us out of this joint."

"Give me time, Waylon. I've only been here three weeks. Rome wasn't built in a day."

It took the guards two minutes and ten seconds to show up after the fight started. Grovenor timed it.

* * *

The same day that Roy got his head broke, a painted maniac robbed Gotham National bank, leaving five corpses behind and taking 68 million dollars.

It was all over the news, even in Blackgate's cafeteria hall where the TVs were protected by metal cages. Talking heads jabbered and speculated, while Grovenor silently absorbed the information and thought about the future.


End file.
